


The Dog With Fleas

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Admiration, Alcohol, Café, Drabble, I don't know what media type this should actually be so...apologies for getting it wrong?, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, OOC?, One Shot, R, Unrequited Love, a candle features, combeferre is a comforting guy, one sided stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:18:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'What are they like, this person you love?'</p><p>Combeferre tries to console R and figure out just what's gotten him to detach himself from their band recently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dog With Fleas

"What are they like, this person you love?"

The two of them sat in the darkening cafe opposite one another. Grantaire was running his finger around the lip of a bottle, having covered it already with sweaty hand prints and the impressions of his cracked, flushed lips. The curly-haired student hadn't spoken a kind word in a number of days, and had refused to join the rest of the boys in games or in repairs. He had distanced himself for too long, and Combeferre had grown anxious. He understood that times were rough for them all, perhaps Grantaire especially, and he had more patience he could give to try and work through whatever issue was hindering his ability to be involved in the Cause. After talking for a while in the half-gloom, only a candlelight to provide them with light and warmth, Combeferre had uncovered the truth that was nibbling away at Grantaire's poor heart. He'd be lying if he didn't say he was beginning to become queasy; the subject was a sensitive one he wasn't expecting.

A name had yet to be given. 

Grantaire was quiet for a moment, pensive, before he took a deep breath and spoke; and by the gentle quiver of his voice, the pink in his cheeks and the drifting of his eyes, Combeferre knew he was telling the truth.

"They are loyal and they are brave. They are intelligent and they burn bright with this...energy and, it's like...a star, and I'd follow it anywhere. But they are insensitive and insulting and unkind and ungrateful. And I hate that. But I deserve it. But I'm not going to give up on them. Ever. No matter how many degrading remarks and lonesome days I have to suffer in their shadow and showered with acid from their words.They are a beacon; I would do everything in my power to remain sober, if only I had moments of delight in their company, if they would only realise me, donate to me some of the same admiration I give to them," Grantaire sagged and his shoulders slumped, all the fluster of his outpouring hitting his aching heart hard. "But that is an unrealistic fantasy."

Combeferre watched him thoughtfully. At last, he straightened his back and his tongue ran over his lips.

"Do not think it impossible, R," he answered, but the smile lacked on his face. 

Grantaire regarded him with frightened eyes. "Don't breathe a word. They can't know."

Combeferre chewed his lip as the candle flame flickered sporadically, casting shifting and sketchy shadows on the walls and across their faces. 

"I promise. I would pass it off as drunken rambling. However," he traced a mindless pattern on the table. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were discover that your, er, 'person', has acknowledged your feelings."

"He would only tell me to seek affection elsewhere," Grantaire moped with a tongue heavy with sadness and bitterness. "I have tried that, and I am almost a broke man because of it."

"Ah. So 'they' is a 'he'. As I suspected."

Grantaire didn't meet his gaze.

"He is a good man," Combeferre admitted.

"He is more than good!" Grantiare blurted, lurching across the table and slamming his hands on the wood, and the desperation in his eyes made Combeferre feel immense sorrow for him.

"R! Settle, please," Combeferre grabbed his friend by the shoulders. "I know you're hurting, but please, do not be irrational."

"Isn't the whole point of love to be irrational?!" he sounded so young, so fragile; whatever it was that emitted from his object of affection had stuck to him mercilessly and refused to go, no matter how hard he may have scratched at it, he was simply giving up on the fight. Combeferre was suddenly struck with a sickening realisation. We are but boys, this war shouldn't be for us to fight.

Silence hung there, the two friends just looking at each other, searching for answers. Grantaire was standing, his arms trembling slightly as the tension ran up and down them. His breathing was laboured, the pungent and unmistakeable odour of alcohol clouding over his skin. The flame flickered faster.

"This isn't the place for love, R," Combeferre said calmly and quietly.

"You should just like him, now!" 

"Because he has a point!"

Grantaire inhaled sharply, distraught, resembling a dog that would howl for hours if you let it, a howl of emptiness and hopelessness. There was spit on the drunk scholar's lips and water in the corner of his eyelids. Combeferre's heart was racing, at once slightly afraid and anxious. Suddenly, Grantaire crumbled across the table, falling awkwardly into Combeferre's unsuspecting arms. Combeferre struggled under the abrupt weight of his cynical friend, bracing his legs and hips against the table and knocking the candle over. It toppled onto the stone floor and went out. The cafe was plunged into a grey half-darkness, bleak and opaque. He held Grantaire tighter, feeling him shudder and press his nose into his shoulders, fingers gripping into his clothes for closeness. The stillness wobbled as Grantaire did. Combeferrethen sighed and closed his eyes, pushing the dishevelled student awat as he began to kiss the sensitive skin on his neck and jaw. 

"No," he whispered, brushing his hand through Grantaire's dark curls tenderly. He had to be gentle and soft, unlike the world that awaited them. "I'm sorry."

Grantaire dropped his gaze, nodded solemnly. The powdered light cast half of his figure in shadow. 

"You are better than this, R. You are as good a man as he."

Grantaure shook his head. So much self-loathing and self-hatred all bundled up in the one brittle man. He was like a phantom, half there, half somewhere else. Was the only reason he joined their band of brothers was to stand by the side of their marble leader? It seemed that way. Combeferre stood, pushed his chair back. He bent and picked up the candle, re-lit it. Grantaire flinched at the sudden amber glow. He cleared his throat, breaking the sticky silence. 

"We rise early," he said. "You should rest."

Another weak nod. "You can't say a word."

"If I had any secrets of my own, I would trade to make the deal fair," he tried to inject some light-heartedness into the atmosphere, but it sank like a lead balloon. 

Combeferre left the beaten dog to howl and claw at the weeping wounds his master had so cruelly inflicted.

**Author's Note:**

> personally, I'm a fan of writing this admiration thing. Not a physical relationship between E and R, just some unrequited, angsty stuff. Sorry, R.


End file.
